


After The World Begins Anew

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book Spoilers, Canon - Book, Established Relationship, F/M, Past Ephraim Goodweather/Nora Martinez, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They drive in silence for just under three hours before Nora feels the first sob escape her throat.  </p>
<p>(or: in the hours after the strigoi are wiped from the Earth once and for all, Nora and Fet find a place of peace.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The World Begins Anew

**Author's Note:**

> so: this is a canon divergence for the television series, but is post-canon for the book series. as a result, it contains **spoilers** for the book series and presumes that you've read it (or have some knowledge of how it ends).
> 
> also contains mentions of canonical character death. unbeta'ed by anyone but myself, so all mistakes are mine.

They drive in silence for just under three hours before Nora feels the first sob escape her throat. 

Escape is almost too mild a term; it _bursts_ from her mouth with the suddenness of a balloon popping. She claps a hand to her lips, but the dam has already broken. Tears well up in her eyes for only a moment before they start burning down her cheeks, leaving trails hot as flames. Her throat shakes as more sobs spill out between her fingers, barely muffled by her palms. 

She tries to say _I'm fine_ , but the words refuse to leave her mind, and perhaps that's just as well. It seems that the world is about to begin anew, and she doesn't want to start her new life with a lie. 

Fet doesn't bother turning on his signal light before he yanks the old, battered pick-up they're in to the side of the road. Dirt and loose rocks spew from underneath the tires as they slide to a stop on the shoulder. For safety's sake, Nora thinks that they should be over a little further, but the cracked, pitted hardtop ahead and behind them is empty of any other traffic. 

She isn't sure how much longer that emptiness will last, now that the strigoi have been wiped from the Earth. That thought just makes another sob tear her throat like razor wire. 

The truck's rattling heater cuts off as Fet twists the keys in the ignition. He turns his upper body towards her, long legs still trapped underneath the steering wheel, but he doesn't move any closer, and he doesn't say anything. Only when she reaches out her free hand does he take it, easily enveloping her much smaller fingers. 

"How long will it take us to get back?" she asks eventually. The words squeeze through a pinhole in her swollen throat. 

"Long enough," Fet says simply. He doesn't say anything further but Nora can hear another meaning, something else behind his words. While it would probably take them only a few hours of straight driving to get back to Manhattan, she knows that she isn't ready to venture back into the city. It's still too early for that. 

It might _always_ be too early for that. 

"Where should we go?" She wipes the back of her hand against her cheeks, smearing the tears into her skin.

"Somewhere we can get some sleep. Maybe two day's worth, you know?" Fet squeezes her hand once before he turns the truck back on and pulls back onto the road without glancing over his shoulder. It's a good idea; now that Nora's tears are slowing down (although she doesn't think they're going to stop for a long time), she can feel exhaustion settling over her like the world's heaviest blanket. She pulls her threadbare coat tighter around herself and slides across the bench seat until she's pressed against his shoulder. 

When she closes her eyes, she can still see the bright flash of light enshrouding the island in the middle of the river where Eph, Zach and Mr. Quinlan had been standing. She'd been able to see it with her eyes closed then as well, even with her head buried in her hands. 

She doesn't think she'll stop seeing it anytime soon. 

At some point, she drifts off. When she awakens, her throat is still swollen and there are tears crusted to her eyelids and cheeks. It's much darker outside and in the faint glow thrown by the truck's headlights, she can see that they're going up a rutted driveway or lane. The ground is lightly dusted in fresh snow and up ahead, it looks like the roadway terminates in a small clearing. 

"Where are we?" she asks, slowly sitting up. The heater is rattling even louder and there's drying sweat clinging to her skin underneath her jacket. 

"Following a hunch," Fet replies. The truck lurches over a large rut hard enough for Nora to bounce off the seat. Thankfully, the rut marks the end of the driveway. In front of them is a small farmhouse that, even in the dim glow of the headlights, looks like it's seen better days. The roof extending the length of the porch is sagging dangerously, some of the shingles are missing and one of the windows on the second floor is nothing more than a gaping hole of shattered glass. But it looks like it will be warm enough and at the very least, they probably won't have to worry about being ambushed by other humans this far off the beaten track. 

Or strigoi, for that matter. 

Despite that, when Nora steps from the truck, her hands automatically reach towards her back, searching for the handle of a sword. But she left what few weapons she had back on the shore of the St. Lawrence River, after all was said and done. She's glad to see that she's not the only one stuck in old habits; when Fet comes around the truck's hood, his fingers are wrapped tight around an iron pipe that's nearly two feet long.

"We should check the place first. Just in case." Nora nods and takes the knife that Fet pulls from a pocket of his long coat and offers to her. The night is growing windy and sharp with cold and she zips her coat up to her chin. Skeletal branches rattle above and beside her as they approach the front of the house. There's a screen door attached to it by one stubborn hinge and it bashes against the clapboard siding like a broken snare drum. All it takes is one swing of Fet's arm to remove the door from the hinge, sending it crashing to the porch. 

Nora looks at him and raises one eyebrow. 

"Hey, if there's anyone inside, they'll know we're here," he says, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Besides, I think I was doing them a favor."

Nora highly doubts that there's anyone inside the house, but there's no arguing with his logic. She reaches for the doorknob, which twists between her fingers with a slight screech. The door swings inward, but the light from the dim moon overhead does nothing to illuminate the gaping, dark mouth of a hallway before her. It’s not as dark as the subway tunnels under Manhattan, but it comes uncomfortably close. 

"Flashlight?” she asks, just as a white beam of light streams over her shoulder, punching into the darkness. 

“Already ahead of you, sweetheart.”

Nora rolls her eyes, just as her throat tightens up again. She forces herself to breathe through it and steps inside, tightening her fingers around the handle of the knife. 

The inside of the house smells musty and thick, like an attic that has been locked up in sweltering heat for years. Dust motes swirl in the flashlight’s reach with every step they take and Nora can feel them settling deep into her lungs as well, irritating her already-sore throat. She buries a cough into the crook of her elbow as they walk further into the house, passing the entrance to the kitchen. The stench of long-rotten food wafts from the room and she hurries by as quickly as she can. 

But there’s no ammonia smell anywhere. Just rot and dust. 

“I’m going to look out back,” Nora says once they’ve returned downstairs, having given the entire place a quick search. “There might be a well out there.” 

“I’ll look for food. Food we can _eat_ ,” Fet mutters, the hallway echoing with his footsteps as he tromps off back to the kitchen. He takes the flashlight with him but thankfully, Nora only has to take a few steps forward before her fingers brush over the handle for the back door. It’s unlocked and she steps out into snow-strewn air, breath emerging in a small cloud in front of her face. 

She expects the air to show some sign that only a few hours ago, a nuclear explosion saved humanity. And maybe the air _is_ different; maybe it’s full of radiation, borne on the wind. Maybe she’s breathing it deep into her lungs, taking months off her life with each gulp. 

Maybe, even though it just feels like a normal winter night, cold and crisp, the frigid wind trying its best to stab through her clothes. 

Regardless of what it feels like, what it comes down to is that the man she once loved and his son are both dead, the strigoi scourge has been wiped from the earth and angels are… 

Nora refuses to think any further on that last part. She’s always kept her faith close to her chest but being violently confronted with hard proof of it is more than she could handle on a good day, let alone a day that somehow manages to be one of the most important for all of mankind and one of the worst, for her. 

Her throat tightens like a noose and she clears it as she walks down the tilting steps into the house’s backyard, feet sliding through the gathering snow. There’s a sliver of a moon overhead, enough for her to see an old well sitting in the middle of the yard, with a bucket and rope perched on the edge. She expects that the crank for the bucket will be rusted or that there will be ice gathered in the bottom of the well, but when she tosses the bucket over the edge, it splashes after a few seconds. The crank _is_ a little stuck but when she throws her entire weight on it, it screeches with protest and moves. 

By the time the bucket reappears at the lip of the well, her arms are protesting as well, but she steadfastly ignores the pain, takes the overflowing bucket and walks back to the house, carefully navigating the creaking steps. 

The living room is lit with a flickering orange glow, coming from the large fireplace that takes up most of one wall. More dust flits through the air, joined by bits of soot, and Nora drops the water by the door so that she can cough into her elbow. 

“I think this is a lucky house, huh?” Fet asks, tossing a handful of paper into the slowly rising flames. “Fireplace, a well, Twinkies…”

“Twinkies?” Nora asks. Fet reaches backwards and comes back with a box that, sure enough, has the Twinkies logo blazoned across the front. Nora’s stomach twinges obligingly; she doesn’t remember the last time she ate much of _anything_. But she’s pretty sure that if there’s nothing more than sugary, probably expired, pastries, she’s going to end up sick before the night is out. 

“Please say that isn’t all you found to eat,” she says, shedding her coat. Her fingers are still cold, but if the way Fet is stoking the fire is any indication, it’s only a matter of time before she starts to sweat. 

“That’s just dessert.” He brings a number of cans into the wavering light as well. Nora spies a number of different vegetables and some kind of pasta concoction, the noodles shaped like a character from a long gone children’s cartoon. 

Her stomach rumbles again, more powerfully this time. 

“Can’t have you going hungry,” he says, pushing a piece of wood (that looks like it was a chair leg at some point) into the fire. He says it lightly (or as lightly as he can with such a deep voice), but he ducks his head and doesn’t meet her eyes. 

It’s not the first moment that she realizes she loves him, but it’s one of the first. 

“I’m going to grab more water,” she says, as the walls seem to crowd in towards her. “Maybe enough to fill the bathtub.” 

She doesn’t bother pulling her coat back on. While the initial chill nearly stops her in her tracks, by the time she hauls up five buckets of water, brings them into the house and dumps them in the bathtub upstairs, there’s sweat springing from what feels like every pore on her body. After her final haul, she drops the empty bucket to the floor and thrusts her swollen, aching hands into the frigid water. She drags them over her shorn scalp, which is just starting to prickle roughly against her palm. She almost forgets what it felt like to have long hair sitting heavily on her shoulders and the back of her neck. 

Almost. 

She quickly strips and washes herself down with a cloth from the small cabinet in the corner, biting back gasps as the cold water soaks into her heated skin. There’s a tiny bottle of shower gel sitting on the edge of the tub, the kind from a hotel chain, and she rubs a little bit of it into her skin before rinsing off. When she finally drops the damp washcloth into the sink, it’s mottled with grime and dust. 

She can’t remember the last time she smelled like anything but sweat and dirt and she takes a moment to just stand in the middle of the room, still naked, and inhale deeply. Only when goosebumps spring up from her bare feet to the base of her neck does she grab a towel and dry herself off. 

Her clothes are still filthy, but for the moment, they’ll have to do; using another person’s towels (even if they’re a long departed person) is one thing, but rummaging through their closets crosses a line into invasive territory. She has a few extra pieces of clothing in her bag and while most of them are almost as dirty as the pile laying at her feet, she’d rather put those on than slide into a dead person’s things. 

When she goes back downstairs, she immediately regrets pulling her sweater back on. The fire is crackling loudly, filling the room with constantly flickering orange light. Fet is crouching on the floor in front of it, back to her. He’s shed his bulky coat but the sheer size of him, the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his not insignificant biceps, is astounding, considering the years of famine over feast they’ve survived. He glances back at her and grins. It reaches right up to his eyes and it’s impossible not to smile back. 

“Food’s done,” he says, twisting fully around to reveal the pot he’s holding in one gloved hand. “I found some paper bowls in the kitchen, but no fine china.” 

“Paper is fine by me,” Nora says, pulling her sweater over her head as sweat beads along her sides. “Less to clean up.” Fet nods as he stands up, the column of his spine popping and cracking. 

“Did you leave enough water for me?” he asks in a teasing lilt. 

“Maybe.” 

“Well, if you didn't, I'll forgive you if you leave me a Twinkie.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she laughs. He grins again but after a moment, it fades away to something more concerned in nature. He steps closer to her and hesitates before ducking down to press his lips against her temple. It’s a soft, barely there touch and in only a moment, it’s gone, fading away in time with the sound of his boots on the stairs. But long after she can no longer feel the touch, Nora stays still, her eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. 

He loves her. He hasn’t said it and she’d be surprised if he ever did. But she knows it, just as certainly as she knew that Eph loved her, at some point. 

Eventually, she forces herself to sit down, not only because she doesn’t want to answer any questions if Fet finds her still standing in the doorway, but also because the smell of food is making her stomach rumble ravenously. The paper bowls and plastic spoons are resting on the floor beside the couch and Nora takes two of each, one for the canned vegetables and one for the pasta.

By the time Fet returns, she’s almost unpleasantly full. She can smell menthol before he even reaches the bottom of the stairs and when she turns from where she’s been lounging with her back against the couch, she’s just in time to see him enter the room, minus three quarters of the facial hair that he went upstairs with. 

“Much better,” he says, rubbing at his now bare cheeks, which are still glimmering with droplets of water. “No aftershave but eh. Better than nothing.” 

“I like it,” Nora replies, scooting over so he has more room to sit down. “But the beard _was_ growing on me.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, grabbing the pot of pasta. “Maybe I’ll grow it back someday. Just for you.” 

Nora smiles, drops her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. She doesn’t mean to drift off, but the next time she opens them, the fire is lower, devouring the last remains of their paper bowls. Fet is gone from the room, but she can hear the floorboards overhead creaking from his footsteps. She slowly gets to her feet, arching her back and neck to work out some of the kinks that formed while she was asleep. There’s a blanket and two pillows on the couch that weren’t there when she drifted off and, on a hunch, she hooks her fingers into where the cushions meet the back of the sofa and pulls. With a groan, the frame raises a few inches. She lets it drop back down, takes the cushions off, and pulls again. This time, the whole frame slides up and out, until there’s a pull-out bed in front of her. 

The sheets covering the thin mattress are more than a little musty, but Nora thinks that they’ll be able to manage. She’s just finished making up the bed when Fet comes back down the stairs. His boots are beside the fire, but he’s only marginally quieter. 

“You found the bed,” he says. “Good. I didn’t wanna wake you up, but-” On cue, he breaks off into a massive yawn, which is only half-buried in the crook of his elbow. 

“And you found toothpaste,” she says, nodding at his other hand, which is wrapped around a bulging tube of Crest. 

“And toothbrushes. There’s more upstairs. Figured we’d take this for the road.” 

“Good idea,” Nora replies, burying a yawn of her own against her palm as she heads towards the stairs. Her nap only made her more tired; her body feels heavy, beyond lethargic, and dragging herself up each individual stair is a challenge. 

She brushes her teeth quickly in the near-dark, the room barely lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. Even if the darkness, even though the urge to be aware of every inch of her surroundings is still so strong, she keeps her eyes lowered from the mirror. 

Even if all she’d see is a shadow of her face, she knows she won’t recognize it. And that is something she’s not ready to deal with. Not yet. 

When she heads back down, Fet is stretched out, taking up three quarters of the mattress. When he moves over slightly, it squeaks ominously, and Nora half expects the thin legs holding it up to simply snap. 

“I hope we don’t end up on the floor,” she says.

“If we fall, I’ll make sure you land on me. Want more wood in the fire?”

“I think we’re fine for tonight.” It’s just barely on the acceptable side of sweltering in the room and, after only a moment of consideration, Nora reaches underneath her tank top, unhooks her bra, and wriggles it out from under her shirt. 

“That never fails to impress me,” Fet murmurs, the corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk. 

“Only because you’re easily impressed,” Nora replies with a smile. For a moment, she thinks about leaving her worn jeans on; they’re not the most uncomfortable things in the world, and she’s slept in them before. But it’ll definitely be too hot with them on and it won’t be the first time Fet has seen her without pants on. As soon as she flips open the button, they start sliding down her hips; she’s not sure how much weight she’s lost over the last few months, but it’s definitely more than is healthy. 

She slides onto the bed, facing the fire with her back to Fet. He tugs the blanket up to drape over her waist and rests his arm on top, a solid line of heat against her hipbones. His chest is pressed against her back and she drops her hand to rest on his. Her fingers trace over the scars that cover his knuckles, find the rough patch of burned, hairless skin that’s slightly raised from the surrounding area. He doesn’t say anything, but his breath stirs the bristles of hair behind her ear. 

The flickering light of the fire grows softer and softer with each minute and, on any other occasion, she’s sure that it would immediately lure her to sleep. But now that the room is quiet, that she doesn’t have any other task to distract herself with, her mind has wandered back to the events of the day, to the cataclysmic light that had saved the world. 

She thinks back to her mother. She knows that Mama didn’t die at peace. All she can hope is that she was too confused to know what was really happening to her, to notice that she was being bled out. She has to cling to that possibility, like a rock in the ocean. 

But with Eph and Zach… things may have been different. 

“Do you think they were at peace?” she asks in a whisper, her throat tightening again, eyes growing warm and damp. “At the end?” For a few moments, Fet stays silent. The only sign that he’s still awake is the slow movements of his fingers against hers, twisting around slowly, twitching slightly when she runs hers over the burned patch on the back of his hand. Finally, he nods against the back of her neck, takes her fingers between his own, and squeezes gently. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think they were.” 

Nora sighs deeply, nods and settles back against him as her eyes finally slip closed. She’s not sure if she’ll believe that forever, if she'll be able to cling to the belief that Eph and Zach didn't suffer; for all she knows, it will slip from her tomorrow and the pain, every last crushing inch of it, will come back in full force. 

But for tonight, she believes it. 

For tonight, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
